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Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc. L AST thou a charm to stay the morning star 11 In his steep course?—so long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! The Arve and Aveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form ! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark,—substantial black,An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, . Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thce, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts, Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy,– Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing—there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven,
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale !
MORNING HYMN TO MONT BLANC.
Co-herald! wake, oh wake! and utter praise.
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad !
Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow
"GOD!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice, Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, “GOD!" Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth “GOD!" and fill the hills with praise !
Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peak, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast,Thou, too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou, That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow-traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me-rise, oh ever rise, Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.
THE scene was more beautiful far to my eye,
The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed
On the shadowy wave's playful motion,
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly breathed numbers; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
And the fisherman sunk to his slumbers.
THE FIRST OF MARCH.
I sighed as I looked from the hill's gentle slope,
All hushed was the billow's commotion;
That star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long past and the scene is afar;
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory often rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.
And in life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion,
The First of March.
THE bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud,
1 And earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, Which, warmed by summer's sun in the alembic of the vine, From her founts will overrun in a ruddy gush of wine.
The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower, Are quickening in the gloom of their subterrancan bower; And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits, Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots.
How awful is the thought of the wonders under ground,
The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinioned day
Thou hast fanned the sleeping earth till her dreams are all
of flowers, And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bowers; The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer. eves.
Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave,
wing, Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring.
The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills,
The Death of the Flowers.
THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 1 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows
brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie
dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the
jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately
sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ?